


New York by Night

by Carolinian_Bog_Hermit



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22708954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolinian_Bog_Hermit/pseuds/Carolinian_Bog_Hermit
Summary: We all know of Prince Sebastian LaCroix, his exploits in Los Angeles, and his Final Death in 2004. But who was Sebastian LaCroix before Los Angeles? A prologue to Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines, taking place in 1990s New York City. Rating may change as the content gets heavier.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 28





	New York by Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the first time I've written and published anything in five years, so I may be rusty. My writing style will probably evolve while writing this story. I may go back and edit minor irrelevant details, but nothing that will change the plot. 
> 
> This is the start of a fanmade prologue to Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines. It will take place in the 1990s, mostly in New York. It very loosely follows the setting from New York by Night when Prince Michaela and the Camarilla are fighting against the Sabbat. Prince Michaela is known for using Mass Embrace tactics to create cannon fodder for her battles - a tactic which has not made her popular to some Kindred, including Sebastian LaCroix. 
> 
> Edit: This was originally a single-chapter prologue. But after the positive response to this chapter, I have merged it with the larger main prologue (especially since there's some worldbuilding here). The title has been changed from "Prologue: New York" to "New York by Night." Future chapters will be published under that title.

An unforgiving endless sea of snow stretches on and on before him. Its still surface is broken only by mounds of frozen corpses and abandoned wagons. The blinding glare of the winter sun on the snow tells him it’s still day, but the fever that holds him speaks only of nightfall.

“ _You've nothing to worry about, my dear. I will be back home soon. The Russians are nothing! This will be an easy victory, an easy promotion. We’ll be living like the royalty of old – you’ll see!”_

How wrong he’d been. His untouchable Emperor had flown them to the sun, watched as their wings melted from their bodies, and let them plummet to the earth. Now the Emperor’s eagles lay in the snow lifeless, torn asunder by the fall.

He trudges aimlessly, filth and blood frozen to his coat, not knowing or caring who he is. All he knows is that he must keep walking.

Just one more step. Another step closer to home…

His knees buckle and he slumps to the ground. Even with eyes open, the blinding white of the snow begins to fade into dull gray.

“Sébastien?” a distant voice calls over the ringing in his ears.

“Please,” he wheezes against his scarf. “A moment.”

“No,” snaps the gruff reply. A pair of hands grasp him by the shoulders and give him a violent shake.

“Get up and keep walking. Come, I’ll help you.”

“Sleep,” he grunts. He tries to shove away the man, but can barely even muster the strength to speak.

“I said no, damn it! You fall asleep for a mere second in this cold and you won’t wake up! Think of home. Think of Paris, think of Calais, think of warmth, of your wife! Sébastien…..Sébastien? Open your damn eyes! Sébastien!!”

\- - -

Sebastian LaCroix wakes with a shuddering start, tangled in a mess of sheets. His hand darts to his hip. His saber, where is his saber? Where is he? His frantic gaze snaps around the room until it lands on the window. Thick black drapes block out the outside world. He blinks wearily as his eyes focus in the dim light.

Slowly, the pulsing thrum of late night traffic pulls him out of the Russian winter and back into the bustling metropolis of modern New York.

He runs trembling hands down his face and utters a muffled curse. Somber, aloof military paintings judge him with unfeeling stares as he wrestles with the sheets and staggers out of bed. Hardly appropriate behavior for one of his station.

LaCroix rummages through the worn gray jacket slung over over his desk chair. Eventually, he finds his old prized pocket watch and flips it open.

“ _Bon sang!_ ” he curses. Late, on tonight of all nights?

As if on queue, his desk phone rings so loudly that LaCroix has to cover his ears. “ _Morceau de merde_...” He grabs his watch and snatches up the receiver.

“Yes?” he answers with an excessively long sigh.

“Where _are_ you?”

“Mind your tone, Ms. Weiss,” he replies sharply. He closes his eyes and massages his aching temples. “I overslept.”

“You? _You_ overslept?” She stifles a chuckle. “I didn’t even know it was physically possible for a perfectionist like you to oversleep.”

“Yes, yes, I’m glad you find it so amusing. Get it out of your system. I will be at my office in less than forty-five minutes. I will phone the front desk and tell security that you and Rothbard may enter my office. Do not loiter outside or in the lobby. You will attract attention.”

“We always attract attention. We’re Toreadors.”

“As you are fond of constantly reminding me,” he grumbles. “I will be there soon. Behave yourselves.” He hangs up and immediately dials his office. “Yes, good evening. It’s Sebastian LaCroix. Would you be so kind as to let the two individuals at the front door into my office? They’ve only recently been hired, so they do not yet have IDs. Shoshanna Weiss and Samuel Rothbard…..Yes, I know she has a knife. She isn’t an assassin. She is a...hobbyist. Yes, I’m sure….Thank you, that is all. No….No, I do not eat donuts. Late? Yes. I am running late. No, _n_ _o donuts_ , I said. Good evening.”

LaCroix slams down the receiver much harder than warranted and runs his fingers through his disheveled strawberry blonde hair. He looks around his bedroom. Like the rest of his haven, it’s a simple but elegant affair, decorated with small vintage paintings, bookshelves packed with old yellowing tomes, and furniture so antique that his collection could probably be sold to a museum.

But alas, no alarm clock. Truly, is it his fault that those blasted bells are so harsh on the nerves? Perhaps he shall get one of those new beeping ones with the bright numbers printed on the front, he ponders.

On most nights, he allows himself a slow morning with a hot glass of vitae, a favorite record on the gramophone, and a leisurely scan of the local newspaper. Tonight, however, he is forced into a hectic rush. The hot shower water has no time to warm his aching bones. Breakfast is gulped down ice cold with a sour grimace. He nicks his cheek shaving away that awful scruff that he wore in his living years. The cut heals in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, undeath has its perks.

He dons one of his older three-piece suits. He is tempted to discard the ill-fitting charcoal-gray jacket altogether. His Toreador tailors always make the coat too long these nights. Most likely a prank, given his penchant for getting on Clan Toreador’s bad side over some perceived slight. He briefly considers switching to human-tailored clothing – not nearly as fancy, but at least the kine pretend to respect him.

He opens a neatly organized bureau and retrieves his wallet, keys, and revolver. It’s been so long since he’s used the damned thing that he’s surprised it doesn’t need any cleaning. He aims down the sight and examines the engraved walnut stock.

His eyes fall past the trigger and onto a keepsake box, shoved unceremoniously to the back of the drawer. Unlike the gun, this box has seen better days. It’s beaten, coated in grime and dust, and the lock is so rusted that it could be broken with very little effort. His anxiety-hardened features relax. He sets the gun aside and picks up the box. With a caring touch he brushes the lid clean and thumbs the lock.

Where is his key again?

He shakes his head and puts the box away. There is no time for such trivial things.

\- - -

LaCroix arrives at his office at 10:45 p.m. sharp, precisely as promised. He gives the on-duty security guard a curt nod of greeting.

He clasps his hands behind his back and taps his foot as he waits for the elevator. The building is a small one – only three stories tall in comparison to the looming skyscrapers in his other domains – but it’s by far his favorite. Its architecture and style is still unchanged sixty years after he bought it in 1930, during his first year in America. The elevator is modern, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from being frustrated with its speed.

When he enters his office, his associates, Weiss and Rothbard, have two chairs pulled up to the electric fireplace. They speak in soft tones over a stack of file folders.

LaCroix clears his throat.

Rothbard looks up with a cordial smile. “Bonjour, boss!” he chimes as he gathers his folders and puts them away in a secure briefcase. The scruffy ex-detective certainly lives up to the cliché of his former profession: perpetually exhausted, shabby, and always working on some project between work, be it a cold case or one of his convoluted music compositions.

“It is _bonsoir_ , my dear Mr. Rothbard,” LaCroix corrects. “ _Bonjour_ is for the day.”

“Ah...right, of course!” replies Rothbard, slightly deflated. “Bonsoir, then!”

Weiss stands and brushes a lock of short wavy hair out of her eyes. “Good evening, Sleeping Beauty,” she says with a mischievous grin. Her fashion sense is impeccable as always – a sharp black blazer and dress pants, stylish leather boots, earrings of ruby and gold…..and a kukri strapped to her belt.

LaCroix crosses his arms and glowers down at her – as much as possible, anyway, seeing that he’s barely taller than her. “Dressed to kill and making sure the whole world knows it,” he scoffs. “Must you wander about the premises with your weapons on display? You make the guards suspicious! The fellow at the front desk thought you were an assassin, Ms. Weiss.”

“Your security has government-issued Glocks and they’re scared of a bloody knife?”

“They do not know you yet and the whole city is on edge. When Kindred feud, the kine can sense it. Now come. We cannot afford to lose any more time.”

“Is your big friend coming?” Rothbard asks as they walk.

“He is driving his own vehicle, which is disguised as a rented moving truck.”

“Who is your ‘big friend’ anyway?” Weiss arches an eyebrow.

“His name is his to give and his only,” LaCroix replies. “Perhaps you should ask him some time.”

They immediately fall silent as they exit the elevator. These nights, it’s safe to assume that anyone could be listening. LaCroix informs the front desk that he’s “going out to dinner to discuss business.” An obvious lie, judging by the time of night and his peculiar choice of company, but bolstering his words with a bit of supernatural charisma easily convinces the befuddled security that good old Mr. LaCroix would _never_ lie about such things!

Their ride is a rental – an unassuming black 70s model with tinted windows. Rothbard takes the wheel, pushing aside a violin case that contains no musical instrument...unless the crack of a highly mobile sniper rifle counts as music.

Weiss settles in the back and sets Rothbard’s briefcase on her lap. LaCroix peers out of the window beside her, paranoid that someone may be watching. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’s had his plans sabotaged by rivals both within and without the Camarilla.

Thankfully, Weiss interrupts his train of thought on political intrigue before he can get any more paranoid. “Mr. LaCroix. Something has come up. It’s about-” She stops, rolls her eyes at Rothbard, and leans over the driver’s seat. “Sam, that is _not_ how you use a stick shift.”

“Why didn’t we rent a car with automatic?” growls Rothbard. “Stupid piece of-”

LaCroix clears his throat pointedly. “Something has come up? I am assuming it does not change our plans, else we would not be driving. Or attempting to drive, in your case, Rothbard.”

“Er….sorry, sir. I’ve got it, sir.”

“Nothing changes,” answers Weiss, “but we now know _specifically_ why our mark is Embracing so often and without permission from the Prince.” She snaps open the briefcase and hands LaCroix the file of one Benjamin “Gunner” Gresham, a wanted member of Clan Gangrel.

“Prince Michaela’s intel was obsolete,” she explains. “Gresham was an Anarch when this file was written up a year ago, but now he’s running with the Sabbat, doing courier work and Embracing caitiff left and right. He doesn't seem to belong to any particular pack." 

The mugshot of a ragged, sickly man with a graying beard and intense eyes stares back up at LaCroix. He rifles through the folder. “Who is your source?”

“Sam’s research and one of Avram’s local contacts. We’ve also, ah, _coaxed_ some info out of a few small-time no-name Sabbat leaders in the surrounding areas. People with dirt, but no one connected to Archbishop Polonia or anyone that dangerous.”

“Hm. And what did you do with the Sabbat who leaked this information?”

“Dealt with them.”

LaCroix gives Gresham’s file a last quick read before handing it back. “So he is creating shovelheads for the Sabbat, then.” He folds his hands in his lap and idly observes the passing urban scenery.

“It would seem that way,” says Weiss.

“I am sure Prince Michaela’s own policy of carelessly Embracing cannon fodder does nothing to help,” LaCroix remarks, his tone dripping disgust. “If Gresham was Ventrue, I would wonder if he was one of her childer.”

In 1980, LaCroix had voiced his staunch disapproval for his Ventrue contemporary’s strategy of using mass Embrace as a weapon against the Sabbat. Prince Michaela responded to his criticism with both public and private scorn. Overnight, it became almost impossible for LaCroix to acquire new territory or conduct successful political and financial dealings within the New York Camarilla. Even the cutthroat scheming of 19th century Camarilla-occupied France was nothing compared to the politics of modern day New York.

Today, over a decade later, LaCroix bites his tongue in fear of further reprisal from Prince Michaela. But as the stalemate between the two sects drags on and on, he grows impatient. Change doesn’t happen over night. Having grown up in Revolutionary France, he knows this well. He also knows that initially good intentions such as Michaela’s can quickly descend into widespread corruption and chaos if given enough time.

“In any case,” he continues, “it is beneficial to us that Gresham has defected to the Sabbat. We no longer risk enraging the local Anarchs. Instead, we deliver to Michaela someone who may have insight on the movements of the Sabbat.”

“And therefore you garner some good favor with Prince Michaela,” concludes Rothbard.

“Precisely.”

“It’s a shame about Gresham’s caitiff,” Weiss sighs. She fidgets with the briefcase lock, a gloomy scowl on her face.

“Indeed,” agrees LaCroix, giving her a tentative sideways glance.

“Your Camarilla couldn’t take them in?” asks Weiss. She turns in her seat to look directly at him, her brown eyes bright with a spark of optimism. “Your people could give them direction, put them on a better path.”

LaCroix actually laughs out loud. “Adopting caitiff? Sabbat caitiff? In Michaela’s domain? Absolutely preposterous. Do you think me suicidal?”

Weiss purses her lips. “You won’t even consider it? The Camarilla could use the numbers. And _you_ could use the allies. After what happened with Michaela, you barely have any contacts, and it’s been that way for a decade. She has you in the palm of her hand.”

The casual mention of his dispute with Michaela warms his blood more than he would like to admit. In fact, it more than warms his blood – it sets it aflame. He completely drops the pretense of indignant amusement. “Weiss, mind how you speak to me. I am in the palm of no one’s hand, do you understand? No one’s. Trustworthy Kindred allies are hard to acquire – _that_ is why I lack them in New York.”

A deadly silence falls between the three of them. Weiss blinks at him, obviously surprised at his defensive response.

LaCroix stiffens his jaw and brushes a stray lock of strawberry blonde hair from his forehead. “As for the Camarilla - it cannot and will not take in Sabbat caitiff. Nor will I, if I wish to keep my dignity and my head. The Camarilla does not show sympathy for lost Sabbat whelps. Do you show mercy for the bullet that your enemy fires at you from cover? No? Treat the Sabbat shock troops the same way. Bullets, doomed to become spent shell casings.”

Weiss’s reaction is one of pure revulsion. She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You know what Avram said to me before you hired us?”

“Sho don't-” Rothbard tries to interrupt but Weiss completely ignores him.

“He said to me, 'Ah, that Sebastian. He’s rough around the edges, but he has such a good heart in him.’ Was he talking about you? Because I’m just not seeing it right now.”

This time, LaCroix doesn’t rebuke Weiss. He simply crosses his arms and stares at the road ahead.

“Oftentimes, Ms. Weiss,” he begins, his voice now quiet and controlled, “the greatest mercy one can show a shovelhead is to put it out of its misery. Pretend for a moment you are in their shoes. No control, no identity, no freedom, no idea of what they even are, nothing. Theirs is a meager existence. I respect your passion, truly, but please think before you impulsively hurl such insults at me. It is beneath you.”

Her expression shifts from furious to confused. No doubt the sudden shift in his tone takes her by surprise. “R...right. I....My apologies, Mr. LaCroix.”

LaCroix sighs and concentrates on the road. He almost envies his two young Toreador companions...reared with a soft hand and still full of the noble ideals their late sire had drilled into them. On some nights, they seem almost human. The pair are certainly a far cry from the jaded back-stabbing harpies and sycophants he usually deals with.

They’re now driving through the far outskirts of the city between Kindred civilization and the rust-spattered urban wilderness of their enemies. LaCroix pulls his pocket watch from his jacket. “ETA, Rothbard?”

“Less than ten minutes, sir,” he replies.

“Then let us go over this one last time. Weiss?”

Weiss neatly puts the files away in her companion’s briefcase and slides it under the driver’s seat. “I shadow you. You bait Gresham into thinking you’re alone and persuade him to drop his guard. At your signal, I grapple and stake him. If he tries to kill anyone, I take his head.”

“Superb. Rothbard?”

The Toreador clears his throat. “I find a vantage point nearby. If he leaves the house, I shoot to disable. If he tries to leave the area entirely, I shoot to kill.”

“And my companion will cover your blind spots and haul off Gresham when he is staked,” finishes LaCroix. “Rothbard, park behind that hill on the next turn. We will walk the remaining few blocks. The noise and smell of the car could give us away. You are certain there are no other strongholds or hideouts in the immediate area?”

“None that can be picked up with Auspex,” Rothbard confirms. “The whole place is really isolated. We’re almost touching the country. Not in Lupine territory or anything like that, though.”

LaCroix nods. “We will sweep the area a last time before entering Gresham’s base.” He checks his revolver as the car shudders to a stop. Six armor-piercing rounds. Hopefully he won’t need them. “Remember, he is more useful to use alive than dead. If there are ghouls, spare them unless they attack, which they most likely will. In that case, give them clean deaths. As for the caitiff...kill them. Even a simple shovelhead can deal a lot of damage when frenzied. Understood?”

Weiss stares at her knife, her elegant features betraying no emotion.

“Is that understood, Weiss?” LaCroix repeats. His tone is icy and challenging, and he knows it. He cannot afford to jeopardize this mission on sentiment.

“Understood,” she mumbles. She sheathes her kukri, steps out of the vehicle, and makes a point of slamming the door.

Rothbard takes his rifle case and glances back at LaCroix. Worry is etched deep into the circles under his eyes. “You...you coming boss?”

“Yes.”

After LaCroix gathers himself and looks up at Rothbard. “Both of you will understand when you are older. Such optimism is wasted on our kind. It is better to learn that fact sooner than later.”

“O-of course, sir,” Rothbard replies. He fails to hide the disappointment in his eyes.

Outside of the car, LaCroix adjusts his tie as if he’s preparing for an important interview. “Approach as quietly as possible,” he murmurs to his companions. “If you must speak, speak in whispers so light that not even the rats will hear them.”

With no further discussion, they begin a crouched walk in the ditches, so low to the soggy ground that LaCroix can feel the startled crickets jump over his shoes.

Less than a minute later, he can see Gresham’s base, if it can even be called such. He had expected a large warehouse; what he finds is a decrepit two story shack hidden behind a jungle of vines and rusty chain link fencing. The yard looks as if it hasn’t been tended in years, perhaps decades.

Further up the road, he spots the deliberate blink of a flashlight. Four brief flashes, a stop, and then two more: LaCroix’s companion, signaling a simple “hi” in Morse code to confirm his presence. Weiss returns the signal with her own flashlight and gives LaCroix a thumbs up.

Rothbard taps LaCroix’s shoulder and gestures to the steep, brush-covered ridge across the road. A perfect sniper’s nest. LaCroix nods his approval and Rothbard scampers off.

After LaCroix can see that the sniper has set up, he holds out his arm to halt Weiss. “Scan,” he whispers.

Weiss nods and focuses. While she concentrates, he too fixates his gaze on the house.

The world around him bursts into a symphony of vivid colors. Highlighted in a sea of dark blue are hundreds of tiny bright auras, those of vermin and stray domestic beasts. In the house, two levels below the ground floor, he finds them – two figures with the trademark dull auras of Kindred.

The larger of the two is pacing restlessly. His aura is a manic swirl of colors so dizzying that LaCroix can’t distinguish them. Ben Gresham himself, he assumes. The smaller, much weaker aura is sitting on the ground several feet away from Gresham. It buzzes like television static, flashing splotches of orange, gray, and black – extreme anxiety, decorated with fear, sadness, and hatred. 

“There’s-”

“Another with him, yes,” LaCroix interrupts. “I assume it is a shovelhead, judging from its emotions.”

“Yeah.” Weiss tilts her head and cocks an eyebrow. “You know Auspex?”

“Ms. Weiss,” LaCroix huffs, “I am a politician, a businessman, and an ancilla. You would be hard-pressed to find a successful Kindred my age who has not learned any disciplines beyond those of his clan. Do you not know Obfuscate yourself?”

“….Juuuuust a question sir. Didn’t know it was a sensitive subject.”

“It is not, but is it really relevant now? Here?”

“With all due respect,” Weiss whispers with a tiny smirk, “you need a holiday. You’re a bit uptight...sir.”

LaCroix shoots her a venomous look before continuing to scan the house. He sees nothing unexpected. The pieces are set perfectly in place. It almost seems too convenient. He thinks of their mark’s distressed pacing. Does he know about them? Is this a trap? Maybe this Gresham is simply a nervous person by nature? 

“Weiss, you are certain that your intel is correct? No one spotted the two of you when you scouted? You left no tracks, no scent?”

“None,” she confirms.

“Then I suppose I am just being paranoid,” he sighs. He rubs his chin and stares at the shack a few moments more. The violent aura of the frightened caitiff remains burned in his eyelids, a swirling afterimage of clashing, muddled colors. He shakes his head and rubs the exhaustion from his eyes.

“Let us begin.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Translations:**  
>  Bon sang! - An old-fashioned curse, literally "good blood!" as in the blood of Mary. Similar to how we might say "Damn it!"  
> Morceau de merde! - "Piece of shit." Hey LaCroix, watch your profanity. 
> 
> **Sourcebooks:**  
>  Vampire: The Masquerade 20th Anniversary Edition  
> World of Darkness: France by Night  
> VTM: New York by Night 
> 
> **Chapter Playlist:**  
>  Retreat - Martin Phipps  
> Soldier's Things - Tom Waits  
> Evil - Nadine Shah  
> Withered Peace - Ludwig Forssell


End file.
